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So hot.
Sotired.
When oh when will it finally get dark?
No! This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to bounce into that stadium looking and feeling my best, ready to sing along to the soundtrack of my tween years. I’m supposed to look cute as hell, my pixie cut stylishly ruffled, my Soul Obsession t-shirt cut with jagged scissor slashes into a crop top, ready to catch one of the band members’ eyes and fall in love at first sight.
Instead, I’m roadkill.
“Bleurgh,” I groan, rocking my forehead on my folded arms.
Not. Cool.
Are my friends all wilting in the heat somewhere here too?
A throat clears beside my shoulder. “Miss?” Squinting one eye open, I find a pair of black leather brogues on the cracked concrete beneath me.Bigshoes. Manly shoes.
Oh, god. Is this security? Is he asking me to leave? Am I killing the vibe? I’ll die before I miss the show tonight!
Head woozy, I lurch upright, clutching the metal fence for balance. “I’m good! I swear I’m good.”
The man stands outside the crush, hands tucked in his pockets. He’s an island of disdainful calm; a patch of frost on this hot, humid evening. Unlike the buzzing crowd in our bright colors and pale denim, he’s in a gray suit with a white shirt and black tie.
One eyebrow arches. “If you say so.”
“Idosay so.”
Though I sure wish my head would stop spinning. For some reason, my brain keeps whispering that this is the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life, and that can’t be right. He’s frowning at me, for starters, and he’s dressed like some snobby businessman.
The sun must be getting to me. Need shade, pronto.
“I wonder if you can help me,” the man says. Is that a British accent? Wait, it doesn’t matter. Pulling a face, I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.
“The line starts back there, bud.”
And I didn’t stand out here for hours and hours, dehydrating myself, to let some suited hottie jump the line. No, sir.
He doesn’t even look like a Soul Obsession fan! He’s older than most of us, in his mid thirties probably, and he’s all buttoned up. No creases in his shirt; not a single dark hair out of place. He’s got a smoothly shaven jaw, and piercing blue eyes that narrow down at me.
He’s pale. Like a sexy, cranky vampire.
“I don’t need to join the line.” That voice, low and clipped, sends a sparkly feeling rushing through my insides. My toes curl inside my sneakers, and I fight to keep my face politely blank. Whoishe? “I need to interview a fan.”
Oooh.
My stiff back eases, and I scratch the side of my neck. Someone shoves up close behind me, and we all shuffle a few inches forward, crushing closer to the doors. “For the paper?”
I guess it could be a cool memory. I could clip out the article—so long as he isn’t too mean in it—and paste it in the Soul Obsession scrapbook I started in middle school. Yeah, why not? It’ll make the girls laugh, anyway.
“No. For a book.” The crowd surges again, nearly knocking me off my feet, and the man looks briefly pained. He blows out a harsh breath, then unhooks the crowd barrier enough to let me squeeze out. “Come on, quickly.”
“But I can’t lose my space in line—”
“We’re going inside. Come on, before they flatten you.”
Blue eyes bore into me, urging me to trust him, and I swear for a split second, everything goes still. The crowd stops pushing; the distant cars stop honking; even the sun eases offand lets a cool breeze dance over my cheeks. There’s nothing else in the world except those icy blue eyes.
No band.
